


A Long Time Denied

by DragoJustine



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Consent Issues, Episode: s02e05 Need, M/M, Oral Fixation, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-10
Updated: 2008-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragoJustine/pseuds/DragoJustine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the J/D Kinkathon for the prompts "bottom Jack," "Jack in handcuffs," and "dubious consent." Missing scene/AU of 2x05 Need.   </p>
<p>I might as well just change my lj name to "the one with the oral fixation" now. I mean, it's not like I'm fooling anybody. *facepalm* </p>
<p>HUGE thanks to blue_meridian and princessofg for beta-duty and hand-holding and cheerleading above and beyond the call.</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Long Time Denied

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the J/D Kinkathon for the prompts "bottom Jack," "Jack in handcuffs," and "dubious consent." Missing scene/AU of 2x05 Need. 
> 
> I might as well just change my lj name to "the one with the oral fixation" now. I mean, it's not like I'm fooling anybody. *facepalm* 
> 
> HUGE thanks to blue_meridian and princessofg for beta-duty and hand-holding and cheerleading above and beyond the call.

When Daniel shows up in the mines wearing that ridiculous dress and cracked glasses, the first emotion that pours through Jack is relief. The second is lust, but under the circumstances, that dissipates pretty quickly. 

That's the sequence of emotions he always feels when Daniel comes back from the dead, and how royally screwed up is it that he has a set routine for finding out his friend is risen like Lazarus? Except, Jack reflects, Lazarus probably wasn't wearing a stupid dress. 

The less-surprising-than-it-should-be resurrection and the dress at least provide stable foot-holds in the conversation, subjects for wisecracks that aren't about the fact that his back hurts and his knees feel like they have hot pokers pressed into them and the blisters on his hands are bleeding and his face is caked with grime and the ankle chains are like lead and he's hungry and thirsty, so fucking thirsty, and oh boy is it not the time or the place for that litany. He needs to get the sitrep from Daniel and figure out the plan. 

"You get _dinner_?" Carter asks Daniel, and it sounds like she's having about as much trouble holding back the whining as he is. Daniel doesn't offer to make sure they're fed, doesn't offer to bring anything down to them after the feast, but probably that's because he doesn't have as much freedom of movement as royal robes would suggest. 

He has the grace to be uncomfortable about it, at least, mumbling and not meeting their eyes when he describes the food. And when Daniel says, "Trust me," God help him, Jack does. He always will.

As the sarcophagus solidifies its hold, Daniel moves through euphoria and abstraction and erratic mood swings. Jack sees him again soon enough, dragged into his presence on legs that now barely hold his weight after two weeks of torture in the mines. He doesn't even have the strength to refuse to kneel, but the guard hits the backs of his knees and forces him to the stone before he can obey. 

His wrists and ankles chafe under the manacles, and his head feels nearly too heavy for his neck, but Jack looks up and sees Daniel. Daniel, stretched out on that stone bench like some reclining Roman senator; Daniel, with the folds of his robes falling to the floor like a sculpture; Daniel, skin glowing and eyes unnaturally bright blue without the shield of his glasses, hair curled and cleanly swept back from his face; Daniel, his head tilted back against the bench, exposing the long, perfect lines of his neck and jaw.

He looks like a fucking buffet, laid out for Jack to feast his eyes on, or like a God awaiting worship. For one horrible, stomach-lurching, dick-hardening second, Jack is on his knees before Daniel and he wants to worship. He wants to say, _take me, use me, fuck me, do what you will to me_ \-- wants to say, _let me please you, let me serve you_ \-- wants to say, _please, sir_ , and, _yes, Master_.

Desire and shame and revulsion war in his stomach, and the sick, sulphurous taste of betrayal mixes in his mouth with bile and rock dust. Somehow he comes up with the saliva, despite his terrible thirst, to say what he needs to say. Then Daniel says they're going home tomorrow, and it seems, miraculously, that maybe the trusting Daniel thing has worked out after all. 

Then Daniel calls the guard back in and says, "Take him to my chamber. Unshackle the ankles, leave the wrists," and strides out of the room without another glance.

***

He's fantastic, he's on top of the world, he's fucking _flying._ He's done it, found a diplomatic solution after Jack and Teal'c's asinine attempt at force, proven Jack wrong and earned the respect he will now finally get. His every cell is vibrating with life, every nerve ablaze with the mere touch of his clothes on his skin, the air on his face. His eyes see more clearly than ever before and he can stare into the sun without blinking. He is strong, strong like Teal'c, strong like ten men; no, strong like a thousand men, because he has an _army_ now, waiting on the simple wave of his hand. He could eat an ox, drink a river, fuck all night.

And he's just seen Jack kneel before him.

Daniel returns to his chambers trailed by servants bearing trays. Jack is standing in the middle of the room, held there by the guard's staff weapon, looking tense and wary and dirty and defeated. Daniel's entire body thrills at the sight. 

"Kneel," he says.

"I'd rather sit, thanks." 

Really, it's just like Jack to be difficult, just like him to make a fuss now, when all this is so close to over. Even now, when Daniel has been proven right and trustworthy beyond all doubt, he is still going to have to coax and cajole Jack into seeing sense. 

Daniel strides close to Jack, whispers conspiratorially in his ear. "I didn't have to talk her into letting you go, you know. I could be a king here, and I'm giving it up to save you. You don't think that deserves a little kneeling?"

When Jack still doesn't move, he adds, "Really, Jack. I'm going to get what I want from you, and it'll be a lot more pleasant if I don't need to use the guards to do it, right?" 

Slowly, Jack goes to his knees.

Daniel grabs the chain between his wrists and clips it to the bolt in the floor in one smooth movement, then locks the clip and tosses the key carelessly behind him. He can see the instant it hits Jack, as Jack discovers that he can't raise his wrists more than two feet from the ground. Jack's eyes go wide for a split second of pure fear before they narrow again. His gameface is good, but Daniel's every sense is alive now like never before, and he can smell the sudden reek of terror that no amount of acting ability can hide. 

"Aw, come on. You don't need this. I'll be a good little soldier," Jack says, with a false lightness that doesn't fool Daniel's new senses at all.

"I'm sure you would. But it turns me on to see you like this, so why shouldn't I do it?" Daniel presses his hand down on his aching cock for a moment of relief. Jack doesn't seem to have an answer for that. The smell of fear from him intensifies. 

Daniel waves the guard and servants from the room; no need for them to be here, really, though the Tauri idea of privacy is considered a bit odd in a royal palace like this. He crosses the room, choosing to ignore the way Jack twists and cranes his neck to try to watch him, and returns carrying one of the carafes brought in by the servants. He throws a pillow from the lavish couch onto the floor in front of Jack, sits cross-legged, and sets the carafe between them. He lifts out the dipper and pours a long stream of clear water out for Jack to see and hear.

"Oh, look," says Jack. "H2O. My favorite element." 

"Water isn't an element. Did you ever pass any science classes at all?" 

Jack stays silent.

"Well, do you want some?" 

"You know I do," Jack answers, and Daniel lifts the dipper again. 

"So ask."

"You're not serious." 

Daniel doesn't dignify that with an answer.

"Please sir, may I have some more?" Jack asks, all smirking falsetto. 

"Nice guess, but too sarcastic. Try again." Daniel lowers his hand again, to rub a long smooth stroke over his cock through his robes. Jack is close, close to breaking, close to giving in, and it's so delicious Daniel can almost taste it. He considers pouring out the stream of water one more time, but there's no need for theatrics. Jack will give him what he wants.

"Please." And this time the need in Jack's voice is so present and raw that Daniel lets out a long, low groan. He dips his first two fingers in the water and lifts them, fat droplets clinging, to Jack's lips. Jack looks stunned, shocked, almost helpless for a second, but then he opens his mouth and lets Daniel paint his tongue and his lips with the water. Daniel does it again and again, dipping his fingers and lifting them to Jack's mouth, and Jack's jaw falls further open and his lips go slack and pliant and he swallows convulsively as the water drips down his throat.

"Suck," Daniel says, sliding his fingers in one more time. Jack does, instantly, his lips closing around Daniel's knuckles and his tongue stroking the pads of Daniel's two fingers and probing the sensitive skin between. His eyes go very, very dark.

It only lasts a second before Jack pulls back abruptly.

"Teal'c and Carter. You should get them out of there, get them fed, let them know we're going home." 

"It's okay," Daniel says, soothing, still cajoling, because Jack always has been and always will be difficult, but Daniel is on top of the world and he can deal with anything. "I sent a servant down to tell them. They're out, they have quarters in the palace, they're being taken care of." The lies come easily to his tongue.

"That's great. So how about we go see them, make sure they're okay?" 

"That's not necessary." 

"Come on, Daniel. Don't you miss them? Let's at least pop in and say hi. It's the neighborly thing to do." 

Daniel rises to his feet and flings down the dipper, leveling an accusing finger at Jack's face. "What is the _matter_ with you?" he shouts. "I give you _everything_ you want, I free you, I go through elaborate deception so you can go home, and this is what I get? I do everything you ask and you won't even give me this?" He lifts his hand to strike-- he can almost see it, in his mind's eye, knows the red gouge his heavy ring would leave on Jack's cheek, can just see the way the backhand would snap his head around with Daniel's present strength. It's a good image, satisfying, but a lot less satisfying than the image of Jack sucking like that, like he craved every second of it.

"Hey," Jack says. "Hey, it's okay. Just a suggestion. As long as they're, you know, getting taken care of," and all right. All right, Jack can see reason. Daniel sits back down on the cushion and picks up the dipper again. 

Daniel dips his fingers a few more times, lets the fat, cold drops slide down Jack's tongue, explores the inside of Jack's mouth -- the smooth surface of his cheek, the ridged palate behind his teeth, the slightly nubby surface of his tongue. He gets more water and moves his fingers in and out, encourages Jack to suck again. Jack makes a noise, low and desperate in the back of his throat. He doesn't close his eyes, though, keeps them fixed on Daniel like a frightened animal. 

"That's not enough for you, is it? You want a lot more than that."

Jack lifts his manacled wrists and gestures. "Just hand me the cup and you can go wash your hands. This is downright unsanitary." 

"Not a chance," Daniel says. There's no way he's going to give this up. Jack's face as he sucked on Daniel's fingers was a study in lust -- the naked, shameful _thirst_ , the _want_ , the intense, terrified, submissive _need_. Daniel is overcome by the desire to keep him just like this, chained and hurt and helpless, focused on Daniel like Daniel is the center of his universe. 

"You don't want to do this. When you're yourself again, you'll wish you hadn't." There's a tinge of desperation in Jack's voice. 

"How many times do I have to tell you? I do want this. I am myself. I'm as myself as I've ever been, Jack," Daniel answers, low and soothing. "And anything you get, you'll get from me."

Daniel lifts the dipper to his own lips and takes a swallow of the crisp, cold water, then lets it fill his mouth. Quickly leaning over, he seals his mouth to Jack's and grabs the back of his head just in time to pre-empt Jack's sudden jerk backwards. They stay like that, frozen for a moment, until Jack allows Daniel to force his lips open, lets Daniel's mouthful of water spill over his own. Jack's wet tongue comes forward, licks against Daniel's, fever-hot in Daniel's water-chilled mouth. Jack makes that noise again.

" _I_ don't want this," Jack tries, after he swallows and they break apart. His voice is smoother now, without the dry, scratchy harshness of before, but no less intense. 

"Of course you do. They give the miners barely enough to survive." Daniel fills his mouth again, and this time Jack's lips part instantly. Jack seems determined to find every last drop in Daniel's mouth, and even sucks in his lower lip and nips it for a glorious second. He raises his hands-- to do what, Daniel isn't sure-- only to be suddenly brought up short by the length of chain. That seems to do something to Jack, change something; his lips go much softer, his mouth falls farther open. He stops trying to lick into Daniel's mouth, to kiss him back, and just takes and swallows and groans, a low, painful keening in the back of his throat. Daniel gives him another mouthful and another, thrusts into his accepting mouth, tries to devour him whole.

Finally, it's more than Daniel can take. He fills the dipper with a shaking hand and holds it to Jack's lips. "As much as you like," he says, tilting the dipper and holding his other hand over his dick, pressing hard and rocking into it. Jack swallows in rapid gulps, water dribbling out the side of his mouth and leaving a white track through the grime on his face. He doesn't lift his hands to try to take the dipper, and for some reason, even as Daniel refills and gives him more, the desperate needy look in his eyes doesn't go away. 

Daniel stands and grabs the other jug, heavy stone, and the cloths piled beside it. He's twitchy, awkward in his own skin, incapable of sitting still much longer. The water in this jug is still hot, slightly steaming, and he soaks a cloth in it and scrubs Jack's blackened face. Jack hisses, a sharp intake of breath as the rough cloth hits skin that hasn't been washed in two weeks. His whole body twitches and jerks, but he doesn't pull away. 

Daniel drops the cloth, paces again, can't stand still. The urge to pull his dick out and stroke it is almost unbearable; he imagines himself coming in creamy white spurts over Jack's face and almost regrets washing him. The image of Jack sucking his fingers, the desperation and desire, haunts him. 

He picks up the plate of fruit left by the water, and sets it down just out of Jack's reach, then stands in front of Jack and starts shedding his robes. "Suck me," he says. "Suck me and you eat." 

Daniel flings his robes to the far corner of the room and stands in front of Jack naked, skin prickling in the chill air and cock standing out ruddy and hard. Jack stares fixedly past him at the wall.

"Not actually that hungry, but you go ahead without me." He's lying; that's what they do with each other, Daniel reflects. If only by omission. 

"Then you don't have to eat. But you do have to suck me." He seizes Jack's jaw in his hand, squeezes cruelly hard, until Jack has no choice but to drop his mouth open. 

Jack stays stock-still as Daniel feeds his dick into his mouth. He looks petrified, turned to stone, shell-shocked, his hands dangling limply between his knees. Daniel's painfully hard dick rests on his tongue, but Jack doesn't move, doesn't close his lips around it, and Daniel squeezes his fingers tighter around Jack's jaw in frustration and starts to say something else about the food.

Then-- oh, God-- Jack must be hungry, must be hungrier than Daniel realized. Before Daniel can even get the words out Jack lets out a noise, convulsive and guttural, like a sob, and sucks.

It's-- good, fuck, it's so good, and Jack is, Jesus, good enough at this that he has to have done it before, and he has that look on his face, the same desperate, longing, needing, hungry look. Daniel cups his hand around the back of Jack's head and rocks, then thrusts slightly, then clenches his hands around Jack's neck and loses all control. He comes sharp and hard down Jack's throat, while tears spring up in Jack's stubbornly wide-open eyes.

Daniel slides slowly back down to his cushion on the floor and presses his forehead to Jack's cheek, breathing deep and slowly coming down. He turns his head slightly, letting his lips slide over the stubbly line of Jack's jaw, then pulls back to look. Jack is still sitting in the same position, hands clenched, and his whole body is trembling slightly. Daniel feels a sudden stab of triumph and accompanying surge of tenderness. 

He strokes Jack's cheek and neck and murmurs nonsense in Greek and French while he feeds bits of melon and berries between Jack's lips. Oddly enough, Jack actually _doesn't_ seem all that hungry, though his eyes are still wide and needy. 

"Oh, God, Jack," he whispers, when he comes back around to English. "I am going to fuck you so hard, you have no idea," and Jack just shudders. Daniel doesn't know why, and doesn't care. "Now," he says. "Going to fuck you right now," and he fumbles to unlock Jack's wrists from the floor. 

"Nice try," Jack says. "I mean, I know you're younger than me, but you're not _that_ young." 

"Haven't you listened to anything I've said about the sarcophagus?" Daniel strokes his cock in front of Jack's face, and watches with satisfaction as it lengthens and hardens immediately under his touch. 

"Daniel. I am begging you, don't do this," Jack says. He doesn't sound frightened enough, doesn't sound broken enough. Instead, there's a careful, steely self-possession in his voice, like he's braced for or resigned to whatever happens whether Daniel fucks him or not, and that's completely unacceptable; Jack should be focused on _him_ , afraid of _him_ , wanting _him_ , and Daniel's vision goes red with rage and the desire to hurt Jack, break open that shell, tear down his barriers, _destroy_ him, fuck him so hard he'll never think of anyone but Daniel as long as he lives.

It's all a bit blurry after that; Daniel is yelling, though he's not sure _what_ he's yelling, and hauling Jack to his feet. Jack cries out in pain when his knees straighten and Daniel feels a vague, abstracted sort of concern at that, overlaid by a savage satisfaction. He turns Jack chest-down over the couch -- huge, lavish, big as a bed but not, because the royal family here doesn't sleep in beds -- and hooks the chain on his wrists where Jack can't reach to free it and starts tearing his pants off.

Jack is talking, a gentle stream of unimportant words in the sort of tone you use to soothe a frightened animal. He keeps talking, even as Daniel slicks up two fingers and presses them both at once, brutal and unforgiving, into his ass. Somehow it cuts through Daniel's yells of rage. "We're gonna get home, it's gonna be fine," Jack is saying, words that ought to be for Jack's benefit but are instead somehow for Daniel's. "We're gonna get you back, Danny, we are," Jack says.

At the endearment, Daniel pushes Jack down hard and bites viciously at his shoulder, rutting against his ass. "Don't call me that," he pants out. "You don't give a _fuck_ about me, you should just leave me here. If you actually cared about me you'd give me this. Fuck you, Jack, I'm going to _take_ it." 

Jack presses his forehead into the couch. His whole body goes tense, almost vibrating, and he gasps out "Okay." Just that one word, but he spreads his legs a little farther, and Daniel shoves into him hard and takes him and leaves bite-marks all along the backs of his shoulders until his vision whites out with pleasure. 

***

And that's how it goes down. 

Well, not all of it, of course. Daniel pulls out and strokes him afterwards, pets him all over like a cat and even kisses him and then fucks him again, longer and slower. That time Jack comes, rubbed up against the rough fabric of the couch until he could almost scream. He can't tell if Daniel notices one way or the other but Daniel's practically purring, as effusively happy now as he was lividly angry just minutes ago. 

Then Daniel says, "I guess it's time for a nap," and Jack has a sudden, vivid, wonderful-terrible flash of body-longing, a vision of the two of them curled together amid the cushions, Daniel's arm draped heavy over him and breath brushing his neck. Instead Daniel throws a robe around himself and staggers out of the room, and a bit later Jack hears the heavy, grinding sound of a sarcophagus lid sliding open.

Daniel might have been gone an hour, or maybe three; Jack actually dozes a little, despite the ache in his back and burn in his shoulder muscles from the way he's lying chained. His mind is carefully empty, void of all thought; it's either that or the listen to the horrible warring sides of his brain, one half crooning _Yes, God, Daniel, take me, want you, yours_ and the other half screaming _Not like this, it's not really him, this ruins everything._

When Daniel comes back he takes Jack's mouth again, and God help him, Jack makes it good. Because this is probably the end of their friendship and certainly the end of the team dynamic but he just can't let it be bad for Daniel, even if this isn't really _his_ Daniel he's dealing with at all. 

Jack is afraid he'll have to meet Carter and Teal'c like that, stinking of sweat and sex and with Daniel's come dripping down his thighs, and the thought seems like more than he can possibly bear. But Daniel sends a serving lady in to wash him and dress him again, at least. 

When he meets up with them again, it's immediately obvious that Daniel's promise that they were taken care of was a lie. Carter stares at him in shock and he's sure somehow that she knows, but she's only staring at his clean face. The way he's walking won't give him away; all three of them are walking like they've taken the beating of their lives, even Teal'c, if you know how to read the tiny shifts in his impassive frame.

"What happened to you, sir?" she asks.

"Got tossed in a cell. Apparently the happy-box makes Daniel paranoid. But at least they let me wash."

Carter believes him, but Teal'c just says, "Indeed," in the tone that means, _And would you also like to extend to me an offer to purchase a bridge, O'Neill?_

At the gate, Daniel doesn't spare any of the three of them a single glance, but he does kiss Shyla, slower and sweeter than Jack knew he could. Jack doesn't watch, rehearsing his irreverent ten-second mission report to Hammond in his head.

Hammond schedules the debriefing, starts the long slow countdown to disaster, to the moment when it all comes out and Jack's team falls apart. Sam can barely wait to study her naquadah samples and Daniel goes with her. He's pacing and jittering and has apparently lost all interest in Jack. 

Jack stands under the shower a long time -- a private shower in one of the unused VIP quarters; unorthodox but rank has its privileges and no one stops him. He feels the sharp throb of the bitemarks in his shoulders and shudders, pressing himself full-length to the cool tile. He's done all the fighting for self-control he can today and those reserves are exhausted. 

How is he going to look at Daniel, knowing that he lost that fight, that he sucked Daniel's cock like it was fucking worship, that he spread his legs and practically begged for it-- that Daniel knows all of that? How is he going to look at Daniel again without wondering what it would be like to be on his knees for him voluntarily, what Daniel would want if he were in his right mind, how it would feel to be fucked by a Daniel who is there, present, caring? Screw not being on the same team together. They probably can't even work in the same mountain together. 

It turns out not to matter.

By the time Jack can head back to Hammond's office and face it, Daniel is into critical withdrawal. Hours later Jack is cradling a sobbing Daniel on the floor. None of it matters at all, because all Jack can think is _It's okay, I'm here for you, anything you need, let me help you, let me hold you_ and yeah. He's fucked. He has it bad. He lets Daniel bury his face in his neck and stain his shirt with tears, and he breathes in the smell of Daniel's hair, lank with sweat and sour with stress.

Hours after that, Daniel is strapped to a bed and Jack feeds ice chips through his lips as he shakes. It's some grotesque parody of how they were just twenty-four hours ago; or, no, how they were twenty-four hours ago was a grotesque parody of this.

When Daniel finally wakes sane, he doesn't remember. He remembers going down to the mine the first time, and finally allowing Shyla to convince him to take another nap in the sarcophagus. After that it all gets fuzzy fast. He can describe his second visit to the mines only vaguely, and his second and third feasts with the king, and he remembers the facts about the planet, the deception and politically perilous position of the king, and then nothing much at all until the storeroom with Jack. 

So nothing changes. 

Jack still thinks about Daniel sometimes, in bed late at night or in the shower with his hand curled around his dick, but it's mostly how he did before: very vanilla. It's the shape of Daniel's lips as he speaks, the shine of intelligence and passion in his eyes, the fall of his hair over his neck (and then, when the hair goes, the brand-new shape of his shoulders and tightness of his ass, just glimpsed in locker-room showers). And if sometimes he imagines himself on his knees, imagines Daniel's fingers pushing into his mouth, rough and demanding... well. That's nothing new; he just has a little more sense-memory to base it on, is all.

Nothing changes, and it doesn't matter, and Jack doesn't actually think about it all that often, except when he does. 

A year or so later Daniel steps out of a temple on Kheb, barefoot and with his hands raised in surrender. But his voice is calm and strong, quiet command and wisdom and infinite sadness, and the lightning comes at his call. And maybe, just maybe, Jack dreams that night of kneeling to him, bending his neck, pressing his face to the warmth of Daniel's skin and hearing that tender, steel-strong voice as Daniel caresses him and fucks him and takes him. If he does, it's no one's business but Jack's.

About a year after that, Jack lies burning up with fever on planet P3X-giant-fucking-disaster, the whole team trapped without their supplies and cut off from the gate. Daniel slides his arm behind Jack and helps him half-sit and wipes the sweat off his face. His lips brush Jack's ear as he says that Sam is standing guard, that Teal'c is scouting another possible route to the gate, and then he lifts a gorgeous cup of clean, cold water to Jack's lips. Somewhere in Jack's muzzy, 103-degree-Farenheit brain he's sure they're almost out of water and tries to stop himself after a swallow, but Daniel just says, "As much as you like," and tilts the cup a little more. Jack goes hot and cold and shudders and moans and clenches Daniel to him, but it's all forgivable in his present condition. And maybe even after the rest of that mission has faded into fever-haziness, Jack clings to that one moment, that tiny precious moment of something redeemed, made right, given back to him. 

One more year gone and Daniel faces him in the strange, echoing darkness of an imaginary gate room, haloed in light, and says, "Tell Jacob to stop." He speaks again with that quiet steadiness, the command, the wisdom, the sadness, and Jack thinks, _This is him. This is the Daniel I should have knelt to, not the other one._ He phrases it as a request, but Jack can no more deny him now than he could stop his own heart. 

And that is more or less the end of the greatest love affair Jack O'Neill never had.

***

It's odd, getting his memories back. Mostly because he doesn't know when he's getting them back: It's never, "Wait! I think I remember! It's all coming back to me!" No, he just says, "Oh yeah, like that one time on P3X-587..." and Sam goes, "I didn't think you remembered that," and he says, "Huh. I guess I do now."

A little later on he starts remembering things he never knew in the first place, which is disconcerting mostly because it doesn't feel nearly as strange as it should. He watches Jack carefully tip a tiny scorpion out of his boot one morning on the latest in a long string of desert planets and says, "I got stung by a scorpion once." 

"Oh yeah?" Jack asks.

"Yeah, in Egypt. Swelled up to the size of a baseball, I was screaming and crying, my mother nearly killed us both trying to get me to a hospital in that ancient Land Rover..." 

"You never said, before." 

"I don't think I remembered before. I was only two years old." 

It makes a certain amount of sense, really. If all inaccessible memories are stored in the same basic place, unlocking them probably isn't an exact science. He explains the theory to Jack and a strange look crosses Jack's face, a split second of what could almost be called fear. 

"Don't go too crazy with it," Jack says, and tips his other boot upside-down. "Freud would have a field day with you." 

So that explains _why_ it happens and that explains _how_ it happens, but that doesn't make it any easier _when_ it happens. It just flits through his mind a few weeks later, offhand, _that time I raped Jack_ in the same mental breath as something like _that time Teal'c sang karaoke._

And then, of course, everything in his mind screeches to a grinding, terrifying halt. 

It's all there; he did it, he remembers doing it, he remembers that he didn't remember it, and _oh fuck._

Jack opens the door and waves him inside, attention obviously still half on whatever sport is on the TV, a carton of Chinese take-out with chopsticks sticking out of it in one hand. When Daniel doesn't step over the doorstep, Jack gives him his full attention.

"You coming in?"

"Should I?" 

"What's going on?" 

"Why didn't you tell me?" Daniel asks, and Jack actually doesn't seem to know immediately what he's talking about. 

"Tell you about what?" 

"P3R-636."

"See, that wasn't a question. You lose," says Jack, during the moment of blankness on his face before the designation sinks in. Then: "Right. You'd better come in for this."

Jack puts his dinner down on the coffee table and turns off the TV, then sinks heavily into the couch. He looks like he wants a beer, but doesn't get up to get one or offer one. The reprieve is just long enough for Daniel to pull himself together, to get control of his voice, to look Jack in the eye and say some of what he rehearsed in the car.

"Jack, I am so, so sorry. What happened-- scratch that, what I did, was completely inexcusable and I know that sorry doesn't even begin to cut it, but--" 

"What are we doing here?" Jack asks.

"What?" 

"It's been five years. You don't think that if I was going to be horribly traumatized, it would have happened already?" Jack pats the seat of the couch next to him, slides over a bit, like this was any other evening.

Daniel sits and shoves his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for Jack.

"Why did you come here?" Jack asks, voice softly insistent and without a hint of accusation. "What are you looking for? Forgiveness?" 

"No. I'm looking for--" Daniel stops abruptly, tries to figure out the honest answer. "What you need. I came to figure out what you need. Anything. If you need to press charges, if you need me to officially amend the mission report, if you need me to transfer off the team or out of the mountain, if you need..." He trails off, helplessly. "Something I can't even think of. Just..." 

That actually seems to take Jack aback a little. He looks up sharply, and when he speaks again, he sounds like he's dredging up words he never thought he'd say. "I need to know if what you did, that night. Is that... something you actually want from me?" 

Daniel's whole body jerks. "No! Jack, No." Jack's face closes down, shutters, unreadable, and Daniel forges on. "That, what happened, it wasn't about--"

"If you say 'it wasn't about sex, it was about power' I'm gonna laugh really, really hard. You might actually want to try that; it'll break the tension," Jack says, and stands up. "Forget about it. Want a beer?" 

"It was about both of those. It wasn't about hurting you, or humiliating you, or anything else like that." Daniel is about as miserable as he's ever been, hunched in on himself at one end of the couch. He stares at Jack's takeout carton, smudged restaurant stamp on the side, nearly indecipherable logograms for ginger and garlic. The words are hard to get out, but dishonesty at this point feels like an unconscionable compounding of his crime. "But yes, it was about both sex and power, and I did want that from you. With you. I still do. And I swear you'll never know it, if you let me stay near you, you'll never have to worry about it ever again." 

Jack's footsteps, paused in the kitchen, turn and come back. He settles back down on the couch next to Daniel and speaks very softly. "I wanted it too."

Daniel flinches. His hand is out of his pocket and halfway to Jack's arm before he can stop it this time. "God, Jack, don't say that." He can hear the strain in his own voice.

"Don't you remember that part?" Jack asks. "The part where I liked it?" There's something in his voice that comes awfully close to brazen recklessness, the same kind of 'laugh in the face of danger' courage that creeps in when he taunts a Goa'uld. "The part where I really didn't fight you very hard?"

"Fuck," Daniel whispers, because that's just about the most screwed up thing he's ever heard. That Jack could have spent the last five years thinking that he-- what? Wanted it, deserved it, was somehow at fault for not fighting hard enough? Daniel doesn't even know where to start with that, but it makes his stomach clench in nausea. 

"Relax." Jack extends his hand to finish Daniel's aborted movement, sliding his hand over Daniel's and rubbing his thumb against Daniel's palm. It's shockingly warm and firm. "I wanted it, but I didn't want it _then_ and I didn't want it when you were like _that_ , and I'm more than capable of telling the difference." 

"What--" Daniel wrenches his eyes up to meet Jack's. "What are you saying?"

In answer, Jack lifts Daniel's hand and licks his lips and softly, almost chastely, slides the tip of Daniel's first finger into his mouth.

"Fuck," Daniel whispers, same word, completely different intonation. He remembers the feel of Jack's mouth on his fingers, on his lips, on his cock, and he's pretty sure if he remembered it before he would never have thought about anything else, because oh God. 

It seems completely impossible to touch Jack now, with the sound in his ears of Jack saying _I don't want this_ and _I'm begging you_. Jack kneeling before him, opening to him, submitting to his touch. He remembers Jack's cries of pain. And underneath it all, the spice and intensity of the recollection, lies his own savage joy at making Jack beg, making Jack tremble, making Jack his.

Jack's tongue slides over the pad of his finger in a soft, wet stroke, and sucks very slightly, and watches him with clear, quiet eyes. Jack _wants_ this, and Daniel wants it like he wants to breathe, and how can he possibly trust himself?

Daniel pulls his hand back sharply. "Jack. I don't know. How can I-- not--" But he honestly doesn't know if he's about to say _not ever_ or _not yet_ or _not until I'm sure_ or just _not here, let's get to bed._

Jack wants this, and Jack may need this from him, and if there's any way to have this crazy, frightening thing between them and have it be right, Daniel can't stand to walk away from it. 

Instead, he cups his hand around Jack's neck and pulls him in and kisses him, soft and sweet and careful. That's good, that's so good, so he tries again, this time harder and a little dirty, a little possessive. Jack's lips go beautiful and soft and pliant, and Daniel remembers that too, and knows with sudden conviction that this is right. His whole body shudders and he has to pull back to catch his breath.

Jack gathers him into his arms while Daniel buries his face in Jack's neck and gasps at the sheer gorgeous fucking hot perfection of it, and Jack rests his nose in Daniel's hair and inhales and says, "Yeah, it's okay, Daniel, we got you back, we'll figure this out."


End file.
